


Stages

by WithCadence



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithCadence/pseuds/WithCadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with the loss of Sherlock by writing blog posts addressed to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages

Mary’s been convincing me to pull myself together. That I’ve got to go back to work, or at least go consistently. She’s right, of course she’s right. And she’s been helping. She says it’s been too long for me to still be this down, that it’s been long enough, which stung a little. There’s no protocol for this sort of thing. I don’t hit a certain date, a specific four or five-month anniversary of your death and suddenly turn all right. That’s not how it works.

But… like I said. She’s right. I haven’t exactly been the cheeriest. Not that she expects me to be, but she expects me to function, and I should. It’s just hard. Harder even to put into words. I’m in a weird limbo where you’ve been gone for long enough for me to stop moping, but not long enough for me to entirely move on. Will I move on? I mean, of course I will but… I don’t know what moving on even means. Right now it means putting on a proper outfit and going out to eat. So that’s what we’re going to do.

I love Mary, I really do. She’s going to pull me through this. She always will.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Your funeral was today. It rained, of course. Of course your funeral would have to be dramatic. Very you. I was invited to sit up front but I stood in the back. I didn’t really pay much attention during the service. Kept thinking about the match on later. Google says it’s a way of coping, that I’m putting off grieving due to shock. I just thought the service was boring. It was very religious, lots of sitting and standing and kneeling. I watched your brother the whole time. He just sat there, not praying, not moving. God, I can’t even imagine…

I did cry, when they wheeled… you, I suppose, out. There was a small procession of the police, lead by Lestrade. He pulled them together last minute, convinced them you deserved such a funeral because you were such a help to them. They stood in two straight lines and stopped you in the middle and someone put on a recording of Last Post. Like you were a soldier. Killed at war. It was so inappropriate and you would have despised it. Everyone stood there silently with their hands folded in front of them and I just sort of lost it. All of a sudden, all at once, the first time since you died last week. That phrase is still alien to me. You died last week. I turned and faced away from everyone and put my head down and cried. Quiet violently, I might add. I’m glad no one saw. I’m glad you didn’t see, you’d have rolled your eyes.

...Jesus, Sherlock.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

It’s been about a year. Well, 11 months, and only just yesterday did I remember you without it hurting. There was a snowstorm, so Mary and I stayed in to watch crap telly. We were watching an old re-run of the Jeremy Kyle show you used to shout at. It was the episode with the bloke with the teeth and the jersey, the first one we watched together. I told Mary how you were repulsed and then enthralled and we watched a good three or four episodes in a row and Mrs. Hudson jumped every time you shouted. She laughed, and I laughed. And it wasn’t sad, it really genuinely wasn’t.

Only when we were going to bed and Mary made another comment about it did I realize that… I was happy. With the memory, that is. I didn’t have to swallow it or push it into the back of my head or leave the room to have a moment alone with it. I think that’s good. Mary thinks so too. Moving on. Not from you. Never from you. Just into the next stage, of dealing, of being. And I wonder what it’s going to be like in the future, now that I can talk about things like this without it feeling awful. Mary’s going to be hearing lots of stories, that’s for certain. But…

What happens after? What happens when I run out of stories? When the telly plays the same re-runs and everyone already knows how you shouted, or they don’t think it’s funny anymore? In a year I might not have anything else to tell, no more memories to recall. In two years I might only think about you now and again. In ten years… I might forget about you for days at a time…

I don’t want that. I don’t want any of this really, and typing this now might be making things worse, but it’s how I’ve been coping so I’m going to keep doing it. I don’t want a single day to go by where I don’t think about you, Sherlock. I can’t imagine a world where that would happen but time marches on and I don’t know what it will do to me. It’s scary. But it’s inevitable. And I’ll figure it out. I don’t have much of a choice.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

I visited your grave, today. For the first time since it happened. These past few weeks have felt like years. I brought flowers. I cried in the shop, buying them. It was pretty embarrassing, actually, but the clerk felt bad and gave them to me for free, so I guess it was convenient. Mrs. Hudson came too, and, as per usual, used her own personal coping method, which was to talk angrily. I couldn’t really hear her once I saw your tombstone. I wasn’t expecting it to upset me so much, especially because I’d already seen it. I don’t know. Something about it this time got to me. Everything is numb, Sherlock, but everything hurts at the same time. 

I’ve studied psychology and I’ve studied grief and I’ve gone through all of this before, but something is different this time. Everywhere I walk it feels like there are tendrils attached to my chest dragging me towards the ground and I just want to give up and lie on the pavement and close my eyes. I didn’t get out of bed yesterday. And I know none of this is your fault but I bloody hate you for doing this to me. I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. 

God, why didn’t I tell you. I never told you. I had so many bloody opportunities but I never did. I am going to live the rest of my life knowing that you never knew. Did you know? Oh god… 

It seems I can’t stop crying these days, which is strange, since usually I don’t cry. Usually I’m just numb. I’m sorry. I can’t write any more.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

It’s only been 13 hours since I got the phone call. And I don’t know what to do, it’s like I can’t process it. I don’t feel anything. I’m not crying, I’m not shocked, nothing feels different. Only now I’m finding I can’t sleep, so I’m sitting here doing what I do best.

It’s going to take a while to convince myself you’re not faking it. Not this time. That you’re not going to show up to dinner in two years with a fake mustache and a horrible accent. I never thought I’d get to grieve someone twice.

You’re really gone, aren’t you? I mean, yes, you are. I identified you on a slab. (Don’t know why they had me do it. I guess this time they wanted to be more thorough.) I touched your shoulder, to make sure it was really you and you were really dead. And… you are. 

An aortic dissection. I can’t bloody believe it. I don’t think I ever will. That it wasn’t some gun or valiant act that killed you, but your own body, in the kitchen. How dare you do that to poor Mrs. Hudson.

I suppose there’ll be a funeral. Another one. Your parents will be there this time. Oh god, your parents… and Mycroft… Jesus.

I don’t want to get too deep into thought right now. If I do, I’ll never recover. I’m thinking I need to take this slowly. Breathe more deeply. Not like last time. Maybe I’ll do better since I’ve done this all before. Maybe it’ll be worse because this time it’s real. This time you won’t be there to hear me.

Your goddaughter’s up now. I can hear her crying in the back room, but Mary’s gone to get her. I just can’t handle that right now. We bought her a little scarf just like yours last week. We took pictures. We were going to show you. She’s only a month old, Sherlock. One month. You couldn’t have stuck around for more than that? God she would have loved you. Mary loved you.

I loved you. I never told you properly and I don’t think I’ll regret anything in my life more than that. And now I’ve started crying, so thanks for that.

Mary’s calling me now. From the sound of her voice she’s crying too.

Damn it, Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is very short. And it might be awful. I got this idea, immediately sat down and wrote it in about an hour, and then immediately posted it. No editing, no re-considering. If I hadn't, I would end up editing and editing and writing and re-writing for years, and would inevitably, end up never posting this. (I have 9 works where that has happened. They're sitting in my writing folder, god knows when they'll see the light of day.) So, yes. This could be terrible. I've no idea. Please feel free to send me any criticism. Also, feel free to tell me if I've messed up the tags or descriptions or anything - this is the first thing I've posted on AO3 so I still need to figure everything out. Thank you!


End file.
